My sincerest apologies for the delay.I've been busy with visiting family (seems everyone wants to stay with you when you live on the beach) and doing research for an original novel. Posting will likely continue to be haphazard throughout the summer.
As always, much love to my reviewers and readers, and welcome to those who are joining the ride. I shall endeavor to keep you entertained.
Chapter Ten
October 16, 1934
Skull Island
Perched thirty feet up on the rock face of the coastal cliffs, Dr. Roland Mayhew felt about as safe as a person possibly could on Skull Island. The height gave him an excellent vantage point over the colony of seals on theshore, and he'd spent most of the morning with field glasses in one hand and pen in the other, his thigh providing stabilization for his notebook. An umbrella propped over his head protected him from the sun and the heat he hadn't even noticed until Ed Newell took the glasses from him and shoved a canteen into his hand.
The stocky American hunter sat a few feet away, cross-legged like Mayhew, his rifle resting across his knees. His rumpled khaki hat did the same job as Mayhew's umbrella. Once Mayhew had had his fill of water, Newell handed the glasses back to him.
"What do you make of it?" Newell asked. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the barking of the seals.
"Classic grouping," replied Mayhew. He used his pen as a pointer. "Two distinct herds, and you can see the bulls there and there. Scars on the one are impressive, even for a bull his age and size, probably due to the nature of the Island itself. Even the females –"
"That's not what I meant," Newell said with a growl. He gestured out over the water. "What do you make of them?"
Mayhew didn't need the glasses to see what he indicated. The boat – a rusty old bucket of a tramp steamer – sat anchored in the water about a hundred feet south of their position on the rocks. He was quite sure that Newell had chosen this spot as much for the new arrivals as for the seal colony.
"You think they got blown of course?" Mayhew asked. "Or did they come here on purpose?"
"I didn't think Englehorn had the balls to come back here," Newell answered. Off Mayhew's confused look, he added, "That's the Venture sitting out there."
Mayhew looked back at the ship with a new sense of respect. He hadn't been in New York at the time of Kong's debut – the Museum of Natural History had him on assignment in Alaska. Primates weren't his forte, but what zoologist could ignore a find like Kong? Once he got back to New York (frozen to the bone, no more trips to the Arctic, thank you very much), he left his journals and observations to his research assistants and threw himself headfirst into the mystery of Kong. He spent several weeks just catching up on the articles written about the beast, though most smacked of the hyperbole typical of editors more eager to sell papers than to inform the public.
Then he heard about Kong's island.
It was a zoologist's wet dream. Setting aside the dinosaurs – Mayhew had never had much use for them, being far more interested in living creatures than those long dead – the Island was supposedly overrun with creatures never before seen. Forget about fame and fortune – cataloguing a place like Skull Island would put a name in the history books permanently. A man could become the Charles Darwin of the twentieth century.
Augustus Blackstone, noted for his work in anthropology rather than zoology, had approached him, saving Mayhew the humiliation of going to him and begging on his knees to join the Delphi expedition. He hadn't been Blackstone's first choice, but the zoologist he'd had backed out when his wife threatened to leave him if he went. Having no such sentimental connections, Mayhew had gladly accepted. By that time, early August, most of the preparations were well underway.
And now here he was, on the Island itself, gazing at the boat that had started it all. He felt a contentment he hadn't thought possible on this Island.
"Has anyone tried contacting them yet?" he asked.
"Not that I know of."
"What does Blackstone say about it?"
"Damned if I know. I'm not paid to ask him questions."
Mayhew did not reply to that; he knew quite well what Newell was paid for, and it included neither asking questions nor providing thought-provoking conversation.
Not that he would complain about the hunter's presence – he appreciated it too much. Not only was the man built like a tank, he had experience to put to good use. Mayhew knew how to handle a gun, but he did most of his shooting with a camera. He was, after all, a scientist, not a sportsman. If not for Newell, Blackstone wouldn't allow him to take these little side-trips away from the main camp. Massey, the paleontologist, hunted big game all the time when he wasn't digging up bones, and no one thought twice about sending one of Newell's assistants out with him. Mayhew might have felt offended if Newell hadn't already saved his life a few times.
"Knowing Claire, she probably wants to go and meet them," said Mayhew.
Newell's mouth tightened, the only outward sign of his inner irritation. He did not like the Blackstone woman – Mayhew wasn't sure Newell liked any woman beyond what pleasure he could get out of her – but he'd learned to be diplomatic about it. Most of the crew viewed Claire as the mother hen, a bit fussy perhaps but focused on making them all feel as comfortable as possible on the Island. As far as Mayhew could tell, Newell was the only one who had yet to warm up to her.
"Do you think they've noticed us yet?"
The hunter turned his icy gray gaze on him, andMayhew realized that he had probably just asked one question too many. "Don't you have work to do?" Newell said.
Mayhew returned his attention to the seals, and from the corner of his eye, he watched Newell lean back against the rocks and close his eyes. It didn't concern Mayhew; up on the rocks, they were out of the way of predators, which generally ignored them in favor of the seals anyway. And Mayhew already knew how quickly Newell could go from a deep sleep to full alert.
With Newell dozing, Mayhew positioned himself so that he had a better view of the Venture's deck. Through the binoculars, he saw nothing special about the crew; they looked as much like sailors as the Delphi's crew did. One thing set them apart – they all carried Thompson submachine guns.
To make things stranger, a group of half a dozen people came up out of the hold and walked down the deck in a line. They appeared to be sailors, but Mayhew would have bet his umbrella that one of them was a woman; he couldn't make out the facial details, but no one could mistake those feminine contours. She and her companions did not have guns; in fact, another sailor stood near them, Tommy gun pointed in their general direction.
"That's odd," he muttered.
"What is?" said Newell. He sat up and squinted, quickly checking the area, fingers tightening around his rifle. They relaxed a bit when he realized Mayhew was still focused on the steamer. "Christ, man, can't you just leave me alone?"
"I think they've got some people held at gunpoint," Mayhew said, pointing at the boat. He handed the glasses back to Newell, who simply stared at him. "Have a look."
"You been out in the sun too long, son," Newell replied. "Else your imagination is getting the better of you."
Mayhew didn't bother to reply that, as a scientist, his imagination was limited at best and non-existent at worst. His was a mind trained to observe and hypothesize, and right now, his brain told him that six people on the Venture were being held at gunpoint. To Newell, he said, "Just take a look, will you?"
Newell took the glasses, but he stuffed them into his pack. "That's enough for today, Doctor."
"But the sun's still high. It's the middle of the afternoon."
"And the heat is obviously affecting your brain."
The zoologist looked at his notebook; he'd filled half of it with his observations of the seals. "I suppose I have enough for a cursory report on this stretch of the coast. There are other sections of the Island I want to catalogue." Neither did he want to spend another night trying to sleep on the rocks; once had been enough.
"And we can spend the evening preparing for that, but only if we leave now. It's a six hour hike back to the camp; we can be there before sunset if you don't dawdle." The accusation in his voice didn't upset Mayhew in the least. If the scientist had a choice, he'd spend hours observing the creatures crossing their path in the jungle. Newell's mercenary tastes found no use for his scientific interest in this untouched world.
"What about the Venture?" Mayhew asked.
Newell had already slung his rifle over his shoulder, and he'd begun to sidle down the rock wall. "I'll discuss it with Blackstone. Are you coming or not, because I'll leave without you."
This prompted Newell to scramble to put away his things and follow Newell. Much as he wanted to stay and see what the Venture's crew did, the last thing he wanted to do was find his way back to the Delphi by himself.
On the deck of the Venture, Laura Ashfield stared at the Island – could anything be greener or darker? Could anything be more beautiful in all its deadly glory? Beside her, Gutson shuddered, and Starke averted his gaze as though he couldn't stand to look straight at the Island. Laura couldn't take her eyes off it.
The wind, coming off the water, smelled of salt, and the air had a warm, tropical feeling to it. Sweat dripped down her back, and her blue shirt clung to her in places. Her physical discomfort was the least of her worries.
When they came up out of the hold, Laura had thought their captors would tie their hands, but no one seemed to think it necessary. Each of the crewmen carried a Tommy gun, and as Laura watched them, she wondered how many of them actually knew how to use such a weapon properly. She decided she didn't want to know. One man had been assigned as their guard, and he stood near them, looking concerned for any number of reasons. Though they outnumbered him, the captives had no safe place to go, and the gun really was deterrent enough.
Robert came up from the stern and slowed as he neared the group. He carried a backpack in one hand and an emergency kit in the other.
"Keep walking, Bobby," John said as the younger Ashfield approached.
"I want to apologize," Robert said.
"If you were really sorry," Laura replied, "you'd help us."
Shifting his weight, Robert glanced at the Island then looked away quickly, as though the sight of it was too much to bear. He stared at his feet as he said, "Beaufort's already been ashore, as a trial. He's ready to go deeper into the jungle. You're coming with us."
Gutson groaned, and Starke gave him a soft pat on the shoulder.
"Why?" Laura demanded.
Englehorn answered for Robert. "Three capable hunters and the only men onboard who have already been there and back. Beaufort would have to be stupid to ignore that."
"And," John said, "we already know Beaufort's not exactly stupid. Crazy, maybe, but not stupid."
In a low voice, Starke said, "None of us'll come back alive."
Robert scurried away, going to one of the longboats to watch the men load the guns taken from Englehorn's cabin. Bridget came up from below decks, looking fresh and young with her bouncing curls. She wore a clean white blouse and khaki trousers; clearly she meant to go ashore with the Society. Denham emerged after her, followed by his assistant, who carried the camera equipment.
Laura rested her head on John's back and wondered if the next time she saw their father, they'd all be in the Happy Hunting Grounds.
"This," John said softly, "is a truly stupid idea."
"All of Carl's ideas are fundamentally stupid ideas," Laura replied, her voice muffled into John's shirt.
"I think," Englehorn said, "this is less Denham's idea and more Beaufort's."
Without lifting her head from John's back, Laura said, "That doesn't make me feel any better."
John jerked away from her suddenly and grabbed her elbow. "Please tell me you see that," he said, pointing to shore, north of the Venture's position. "Tell me I'm not imagining it."
All six of them faced the Island, squinting to get a better look at the beach. Laura saw only a colony of seals, and then movement above them on the rocks made her realize she wasn't looking in the right place. Two fingers worked their way down the cliffs, and they looked distinctly human.
"What the hell?" Englehorn muttered.
Laura turned to face the longboats and called, "Carl!"
The director faced her and held out his hands, shaking his head. He actually seemed regretful.
"Binoculars," she called to him. "Please, bring us a pair."
Denham glanced behind him – Beaufort and Kendrie, both wearing waterproof trench coats for reasons Laura had yet to understand, stood at the other end of the longboat, arguing about something – then reached into the boat and pulled out a backpack. As he moved to the captives, he rummaged through it, eventually pulling out a pair of field glasses.
The sailor guarding them adjusted his gun. "You should stay back, Mr. Denham."
"What are you going to do?" Denham retorted. "Shoot me?"
The man hesitated, and Denham shook his head. He gave the glasses to Laura.
"Thank you," she said and faced the cliffs again.
"Sorry I can't do more," Denham replied.
"Right," John said, glowering at the shorter man. "Sure you are."
"Look," Denham said as Laura lifted the binoculars and scanned the rock wall. "None of this was my idea. Sure, I've stretched the law before, but this is – this is too much, even for me. A mutiny, for Christ's sake!"
"Save it," Englehorn said. "You're just hot air, Denham."
"You want an apology? Fine, I'm sorry. Doesn't do much to help the situation, does it?"
"Shut up, all of you," Laura said. "There are two men climbing down from those rocks over the shore."
The men crowded around her.
"Natives?" Denham asked.
"White men."
"They must be from the Delphi."
"What's that?" Starke asked.
"It's a boat anchored up the coast, north of here. Beaufort got a telegram about it when we were still in Bombay. It's a scientific expedition."
"Let me see," John said, touching Laura's arm.
She jerked away from him. "Wait."
Adjusting the lenses, she tried to focus on each man in turn. One was fair-haired, probably in his mid-thirties. Despite his nimble movements, he looked out of place up there on the rocks; he had an umbrella strapped to his back instead of a rifle. His companion was older and rougher, with gray sprinkled in his black hair, and suitably armed for the Island's menaces. When he turned his face to the water, Laura recognized him instantly. Even through the glasses, she could see the old, white scar that ran down the left side of his face.
"Son of a bitch," she said as she lowered the glasses.
"What?" John asked, taking them from her.
"That's Newell up there."
Englehorn muttered a low curse in German and glared at Denham. "I thought you said it was a scientific expedition."
"It is!" Denham replied. "Who's this Newell character?"
"Only one of the most famous white hunters in the world," Laura said. "Spends most of his time in Africa, blowing the legs off lions for the sheer fun of it."
"Sounds charming," Denham commented.
"He's rather a lot like Beaufort," said John.
Laura shook her head. "Except he's not in it for the recreation. This man's the real thing. He goes after man-eaters for the rewards he gets."
"No rewards for coming to Skull Island," said Englehorn. "So why is he here?"
"Maybe for the same reason Beaufort is," replied Laura.
From the longboat, Beaufort shouted Denham's name and waved an arm at the group. "Bring them over; we're ready to launch."
John took Laura's hand as they followed Denham to the boat, Englehorn and his sailors coming behind them. The longboat had already been hoisted to the side of the Venture, and Bridget and the other Society men sat in it among the guns and the equipment. There were enough guns for everyone, including the captives. It relieved Laura to see that.
Beaufort smiled unpleasantly at them. "Do me the favor of taking the rudder, Englehorn? I'll give you the choice of landfall this time."
"We're not going," Englehorn stated.
"Really?" Beaufort replied without losing his smile. He swung open his trench coat and rested his hand on a pistol holstered on his right hip. "Would you like to die here, on your boat? Better yet –." He shifted his gaze to Laura. "I don't like to change the stakes once they've been set. So let's try that again, shall we?"
"There's no need for that," said Laura. "No one's going to be shooting anyone else. We'll go."
"Spoken like a lady," Beaufort said as he folded his arms over his chest, letting the trench coat slide closed again. "If not for you, Miss Ashfield, perhaps your companions would have to show just how cowardly they really are."
John's grip tightened on her hand, but Laura shook her head. Now was not the time to challenge Beaufort; she'd rather wait until the odds of succeeding were in their favor. Englehorn brushed past Laura without looking at her, and she wondered if he felt the same way.
Beaufort threw his head back and laughed as Englehorn and his sailors climbed over the side of the Venture into the longboat. He was still laughing followed them in, letting go of John's hand to take Englehorn's as he helped her down. He stood at the rudder, and Laura sat down in front of him, next to Bridget. It gave the men plenty of room to tend the oars.
Bridget hooked her arm through Laura's and crowded close to her. "I'm so glad you're coming, Miss Ashfield. It'll be so nice to have another woman to share this experience."
Laura did not return the enthusiasm, watching instead as John settled himself across from her. In the bow of the boat, she could see Robert and Denham trying to avoid eye contact with her.
"You'll be coming right along," Beaufort said to Kendrie in a voice that suggested he'd better do just that.
"Just as soon as the other boat's ready to launch," Kendrie replied.
"Be quick about it," said Beaufort, and he stepped down into the longboat, taking the oar beside John. As he settled in, he spread out his coat, again showing off the pistol at his waist. He stared up at Englehorn and said, "No trouble now, right, Englehorn?"
Without replying, Englehorn gestured to the men holding the lines, and the longboat began to descend. The impact with the water jostled the passengers about a bit, but the surf was calm and manageable. The men pulled at the oars, and the boat slid through the water with ease, gliding across the glassy surface.